| |
| ALL over-thumbed, dog-eared, and stained with grass, | |
| All bleached with sun and time, and eloquent | |
| Of afternoons in golden-houred romance, | |
| You turn them o’er, those comrade books of mine, | |
| And idly ask me what I think of Keats. | 5 |
| But let me likewise question you round whom | |
| The clangour of the Market sweeps and clings; | |
| In Summer toward the murmurous close of June | |
| Have you e’er walked some dusty meadow path | |
| That faced the sun and quivered in the heat, | 10 |
| And as you brushed through grass and daisy drift, | |
| Found glowing on some sunburnt little knoll | |
| One deep, red, over-ripe wild strawberry?— | |
| The sweetest fruit beneath Canadian skies, | |
| And in that sun-bleached field the only touch | 15 |
| Of lustrous colour to redeem the Spring— | |
| The flame-red passion of life’s opulence | |
| Grown over-sweet and soon ordained to death! | |
| |
| And have you ever caught up in your hand | |
| That swollen globe of soft deliciousness? | 20 |
| You notice first the colour, richly red; | |
| And then the odour, strangely sweet and sharp, | |
| And last of all, you crush its ruddy core | |
| Against your lips, till colour, taste, and scent | |
| Might make your stained mouth stop the murmur; ‘This | 25 |
| The very heart of Summer that I crush!’ | |
| So poignant through its lusciousness it seems! | |
| Then what ’s the need, Old Friend, of foolish words: | |
| I’ve shown you now just what I think of Keats. | |
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